


Lead Us Into Temptation

by fandomfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crossdressing, Genderplay, M/M, Welcome Home Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q welcomes James home in surprising and mutually enjoyable fashion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead Us Into Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> This story owes some debts. First, to [qtmaster](http://qtmaster.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, who posted an excellent pic of fem!Q cosplaying, which birthed the bunny for this story.
> 
> And second, an even greater debt to [beaubete](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete), who gave this sucker the kind of rigorous, thorough beta job of my dreams.
> 
> Anything remaining is down to me, for beau is fantastic and went over this with a fine-tooth comb.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, this ain't no Kindle Worlds; I make no money from it.

He calls _Q, I'm home_ as he enters his flat. It's a chill, drizzling London evening much like any chill, drizzling London evening, and the flat's mundane signs of habitation are just as familiar, though James hasn't been there in weeks. There's a tome of an engineering text abandoned on the coffee table, no fewer than four mugs scattered about the room, and a much-worn leather satchel dropped by the front door.

How very domestic.

"You know," James announces, loosening his tie as he heads for the bedroom's warm lamp light, "if it weren't for the sixteen-digit passcode and retinal scan required to enter the bulletproof door, I might think this was any old–"

And that's where the domesticity ends, crumbles to ash in James' mouth gone suddenly dry at the sight that greets him.

As he often is, Q is at his desk, wearing a white Oxford, brown brogues, and check.

Only it's an Oxford cut much slimmer than his usual, and the brown brogues on his feet are over white knee socks, and James can see those socks because the check is—instead of trousers—a very short tartan kilted _skirt_.

He's tamed his decadent mop of hair into something like a fashionably shaggy pixie cut. James can see so much pale thigh, and yet he still looks just like James' Q. It's like he's run some genetic algorithm that's seamlessly blended himself with a Catholic schoolgirl.

The result is sexy as hell.

Q looks up from his laptop, says, "Hello, James", and turns back to his typing as though James has just popped out to the off-licence and back, not at all as if he's been three weeks breaking up a human trafficking ring in Tallinn and returned to find his lover dressed like a perfectly twisted schoolgirl fantasy.

"I must admit I was hoping for a rather warmer welcome home than that," James says, grasping for his trademark cool facade and approaching the desk.

Q sighs audibly and folds shut his laptop. "Very well. Welcome home, then. Glad to have you back in one piece, though I doubt I can say the same for those surveillance-jamming glasses I sent you with."

"No, you're right, there," James smirks as Q stands, pats down the folds of his skirt, and comes around the desk. "Afraid they're in quite a few shards glittering amongst the cobblestones of picturesque Estonia."

James leans on the edge of the desk, legs spread, and Q steps right up between them. He smells the same as always.

"Really, I sometimes wonder why I bother," Q says with that air of disappointed resignation that James has always found perversely attractive.

Behind his glasses, Q has lined his eyes with something subtle and smoky. James traces a finger over one brow and down a fine, high cheekbone.

"You've changed your look while I was away," he offers. He gives Q a blatant, lingering look from his styled hair down to his shoes, and back up. "It suits you." He grips possessively at Q's lean, hard hips under the skirt's scratchy wool, pulling him closer. Q follows his lead, inhaling sharply.

"Every now and then, I like a change," he says, and though his voice stays even, James can see the pulse beating fast at his throat where the top three undone buttons expose it.

James tightens his grip on Q's hips and runs his nose in a line up the side of Q's neck to murmur in his ear, "You hardly look like my Q. Perhaps it's Quinleigh, now. Quenna? Quenby?"

Q's disgusted snort is swallowed in a gasp as James nips sharply at his earlobe.

"Querida?" he soothes the sting with his tongue.

"Of all the ridiculous–" Q tries, though his voice is no longer steady, and James cuts him off with two fingers to his mouth that's glossy with something vaguely sweet smelling.

"Mmm," James hums, pulling his head back to meet Q's eyes. "Querida, I think. Now kiss me hello, my heart."

Q does, nimble-fingered hands locking behind James' head to pull him into a hungry mouth that quickly gives the lie to his feigned nonchalance. Q may be dressed as some androgynous fey creature out of James' dreams, but his kiss is as demanding and familiar as ever.

"Fuck," he grits out against James' lips. "Missed you."

James hums into the fevered shock of mouth on mouth and gathers Q in tight with an arm at his back and a rough grab at his kilt-covered arse. Q's hands are frenetic. They scratch at James' scalp and grip at his shoulders and push him back until he's fully seated on the desk and Q can climb up to kneel over him.

James grips his own two hands around Q's middle, thrilling, as ever, at how powerful his large, blunt fingers look spanning that trim waist. So much spit and spark in such a spare package, this genius slip of a thing James has latched himself to.

He can feel Q's prick twitching for him, and it makes his own twitch right back. When he rubs them together hard, Q moans and writhes, a frustrated flurry of movement like he wants to press close and pull away at the same time.

"Q?" he asks, pulling them apart with the hand he's sent up to tangle in Q's hair.

Q's eyes have gone witchy, and he's flushed a pretty pink, panting, lip gloss smeared around his mouth. "Damned wool," he growls. "It chafes."

"Poor little love," James coos archly. "Are your nice white knickers not protecting enough of your delicate skin?"

Instead of responding with the backchat James is expecting, Q merely smirks and asks, "And what makes you think that's what I've got on under here?"

James' cock _leaps_ at the possibilities. He knows Q feels it, because his ready, red smirk widens and he pulls one of James' hands to the pair of buckled straps holding his kilt together. "Why don't you help me solve my chafing problem?" he invites.

James doesn't need to be asked twice. He unbuckles the kilt and moves to pull it off, but Q stops his hands and redirects them to the buttons of his shirt. As James slips them free, one by one, Q undoes his cuffs. Tantalising glimpses of black underneath make James' breath go short, and when he pushes apart the undone halves of Q's shirt and pulls the kilt open around his hips, he can do nothing but gape.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he manages, staring at the bits of satin and lace that wrap around Q's pale torso. He traces a reverent finger over the pattern of straps that vee down to the centre of Q's chest and web out from there to wrap around him. James hears his voice come hoarse and harsh when he says, "Let me look at you," and gives Q a gentle push to climb down.

Q does, getting off the desk and to his feet, stripping out of knee socks and shoes and letting the opened kilt fall to the floor until he's in nothing but an open white shirt over this black... _harness_ is the best word James can come up with.

"Take the shirt off," he tells Q, and Q does, and he's fucking beautiful. The harness covers practically nothing, its lace and netting and satin ribbons each demure on their own and anything but when all combined. It's clearly a garment made for a woman, and James can well imagine how it would accentuate the curves of breast and hip and waist. But Q's clearly given thought to the evening's play, because hell if this devastatingly naughty thing doesn't look like it was made bespoke for Q's graceful, lean lines, curves be damned.

Well, apart from the curve of Q's very hard cock that pushes up out of the scrap of cloth at his groin, stretching it obscenely over more flesh than it was ever designed to contain. Q is visibly leaking, slick shimmering trails seeping down to stain the fabric. James' mouth waters.

"And?" Q prompts with a single raised eyebrow, imperiously inquisitive, though the effect is somewhat diluted by his flush and the wildness of his hair and the way he's suddenly turned the fantasy from school-going androgyne to high-end fetish courtesan.

"Turn around," James demands, and Q does, allowing James to follow the pattern of straps to where they gather at his tailbone. There's nothing covering or between the cheeks of his arse, just a few thin strips of satin that slip down between his thighs to join with the front of the harness.

Q has turned to look coyly at James over his shoulder, following where his eyes go. "The bottom bit's called an ouvert," Q tells him, "and I chose it because you don't have to take it off when you fuck me."

James swallows hard. He's still sitting on the desk, fully dressed with nothing more than a loosened tie and his suit jacket unfastened, and Q is... well....

"You're the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my life," James says fervently. He reaches out, and Q comes eagerly, pushing in close for a deep, slow, thorough kiss. James plays one hand over the pattern of fabric, the contrast of lace, satin, and skin a delight. With the other he gently removes Q's glasses, then grips at his arse, urging Q back up onto the desk to kneel astride James' lap again.

Q looks down at him for a moment that contains a silent conversation— _–I'm glad you're home safe –I'll always fight to come back to you_ —and then he gives a little shake and breaks the quiet with, "I want to ride you, just like this, up on my desk with you still dressed down to your shoes."

James groans, "Fuck, yes!" and they both scrabble for his belt and flies at the same time, in each other's way until James cedes ground to Q and grips that tempting, pert little arse in both hands.

"You'd better still keep lube in your top desk drawer," he growls as Q finds his way into James' trousers and pushes his pants down just enough for his ready, aching cock to spring free.

"Don't need it," Q smirks, hungry gaze locked on James' prick. "Go on and see."

James slides his fingers in toward Q's hole and finds body-warm silicone. "Bloody hell, Q," he groans. "You'll be the death of me." He grips the end of the plug and twists a bit for the reward of Q's moan and arched back.

"The little death, most assuredly," Q pants, bowing to rest his forehead on James' shoulder. "Come on, James," he whines. "It's been weeks since I've had you, and I've sat here for two hours waiting in this get-up with my arse plugged, ready for your cock. I want to be fucked. I want your come in me."

"God!" James swears. He turns Q's head toward him and kisses him roughly with all the pent-up want he's got. The plug comes free of Q's body at his tug, and he rubs his fingers through the slick on its surface, then perfunctorily over his prick before he tosses it aside. It's not a generous amount of lube; Q's going to feel this one.

He's swamped by a possessive red haze of the need to make Q know who he belongs to. And it's in that haze that James bites onto Q's lower lip and shoves his cock up into Q's grasping hole, sliding all the way in fast—too fast—until Q's arse comes to rest in James' lap.

Q keens, jerking his head backward, but James doesn't loosen his teeth, and Q's lip tugs hard against him until it slips free.

"James, oh James," Q gasps, his body a tense, quivering bowstring while he adjusts to the intrusion.

James turns to huff heavy breaths into Q's neck, forced to think of unpleasant things to not come immediately.

He holds Q hard in place to look at him, one hand on his hip, one in his wild hair. "You're _mine_ , you understand me?" he growls. "This beautiful body, this incredible outfit, this fucking amazing arse, all of it. _Mine_!"

"Oh god, James," Q sobs. "Yes! Yours. Now let me move."

James loosens his iron grip, and Q rises up on his knees until James nearly pops free. He freezes for a moment until James looks up at him. James grins fiercely and grabs onto both of Q's hips to slam him down, seating his cock again inside that marvellously tight heat.

Q's breath punches out of him, and again when he raises himself back up and this time pushes himself down. Rising and falling, building a rhythm between them, divinely beautiful in his abandon.

James holds onto Q, telling him _Yes_ and _So fucking good_ and _I never want to stop fucking you_ , and Q answers by shifting on his knees to change the angle and then positively wailing when James' instroke hits him just right.

"James!" he calls out, head back now, twisting and writhing and fucking himself faster and faster on James' cock until his muscles start to tremble, his whole body quaking with exertion and the rush of his oncoming orgasm.

James scrambles to help him, shifting back on the desk until he can lift one foot up to rest flat on the surface, determined to screw into Q harder and harder and—oh fuck!—harder. He braces a hand behind him and pulls Q down on his cock with the other, only half realising he doesn't have a hand free to help Q.

"Touch yourself," he grits out between thrusts. "Put your hand on that pretty prick. Make yourself come."

Q shakes his head feverishly. "Don't need it," he moans. "Come on your cock. Just your cock. Just you, James. Just you."

And suddenly, James is so close to being right there with him. "Yes," he growls. "Come on. Come, you gorgeous little—fuck! Want to come in you. With you. Now, Q. Come all over me. Right. Fucking. Now!"

He shoves himself brutally hard into Q and roars as his release takes him, slicking his way inside the body above him. Q follows seconds later, shaking apart with a wailed _James!_ , cock spurting across James' shirt and trousers and his own black satin and lace.

James sprawls backward on the desk, and Q follows him down, both of them heaving and panting for breath. It's several minutes before either of them speaks. James strokes Q's back absently and feels his cock soften inside Q's arse. When it slips free, Q makes a kittenish sound of displeasure and James can't help but laugh.

He slips two fingers into Q, playing them through his own come, and Q's little protesting grunt comes again.

"Incorrigible," he scolds, but his censure holds little weight when he follows it up by humming and pushing his arse further onto James' fingers.

"Look at you," James purrs. "So hungry for touch, even now."

Q lifts his head to look James in the face and says, in all seriousness, "For your touch. I'm always hungry for your touch, James."

James leans up and kisses back his response. "You know, you're welcome to greet my homecoming with this outfit any time you like," James says when they pull apart.

Q huffs a little laugh. "So original." He rolls his eyes. "The Catholic schoolgirl? Really?"

"What can I say? I'm a man of classic tastes." James slips two fingers of his free hand under a strip of satin and pulls it taut. "Besides," he adds, "I doubt this is what most Catholic schoolgirls have on under their tartans and jumpers." He releases the strap to snap on Q's skin. "And you're hardly a proper Catholic schoolgirl, now are you?"

James accentuates his question by pushing further into Q with his fingers, satisfied by the small, high noise in the back of Q's throat.

"I don't know about that," Q says with a gratifying hint of breathlessness. "We both look good in check. We both do our research." He grins devilishly. "We both enjoy spending time on our knees."

"Now who's incorrigible, you cheeky baggage?" James retorts.

"And you love it," Q smiles at him fondly.

"I do," says James. "I really do."

**Author's Note:**

> What's Q wearing, you might ask.
> 
> Some of it, I leave up to your clever imaginations, but I will say that the skirt I imagine to look something like [this](http://i212.photobucket.com/albums/cc46/fandomfan/kilt_9-29_m-425x287_zpsa7b396a3.jpg).
> 
> Q's lovely underthing is an actual garment from Agent Provocateur that looks like [this](http://i212.photobucket.com/albums/cc46/fandomfan/qplaysuit_zps1254f65e.jpg) from the front and [this](http://i212.photobucket.com/albums/cc46/fandomfan/ScreenShot2013-07-20at120206AM_zps7330f05d.jpg) from the back (modeled by a lady who—though no Q—is quite fetching but rather NSFW).


End file.
